JxHQ: Appetite
by princessebee
Summary: Time passes, things change. Whether you want them to or not. JokerxHarley. Warnings for being dangerously close to fluff. Oops. Written for the 'Escalation' challenge over at batfic contest on livejournal. WINNER First Place! YAY!


The Joker was bent double over his desk, tongue sticking out and brow furrowed deep in thought. His crayon scritched as he scribbled, the Cuban heel of his shoe tapping out a frantic rhythm on the floorboards.

"A-hem!" The musical note did not register in his consciousness, but the feeling that immediately followed it did, that of playful fingers curling themselves around his waist He set his jaw and determined to ignore it.

"A-heeeeem!" More insistent this time, and accompanied by a warm gust of breath on his ear. Okay, _that_ was irritating. He shrugged his shoulders and wiggled about jerkily in his chair, hoping to toss the clinging little parasite off.

Then he began scribbling again.

"Oh, Puddin'…"

He couldn't hold back a sigh at the sound of that teasing voice.

"You work too hard… why don't you take a break for a ride on ya Harley?"

And this time her hands were tugging his shirt up, her fingertips delving beneath the waist of his trousers, skimming over the sensitive white skin of his pelvis. Her tongue flickered out and tickled his ear and he felt fury rise in him, as white hot as ice.

He spun around, his lightly coiled fist catching her brutally on the cheek with a dull _thunk_, sending her into a spin of her own that finished with her crumpled in a heap on the old funhouse floorboards.

He tucked his shirt back in, rearranged his waistcoat and swept back the strands of hair that had come loose when he'd whirled on her.

"Be a doll, Harley, and go get Daddy a few Happy Meals, there's a pet." He said cheerfully as she groaned, her blood prettily red on the layer of dust covering the floor. Then he turned back to his desk and resumed his work, lavender crayon spilling his brilliance onto reams and reams of butcher's paper.

Didn't she understand he had more _important_ things to think about?

**ooOOoo**

The Joker was paused in deep thought, his crayon pressed against his tongue, striking a dramatic pose with one hand behind his back, his head tipped towards the roof. His eyes were fixed on the single bulb overhead as though it were the moon, watching contemplatively as a moth or two floated dopily towards it.

It was the perfect thing. The very perfect thing. But how to make it _happen_?

He reached a fumbling hand to the side, fingertips clutching at the air and a moment later a half-eaten burger was pressed into his palm and he lifted it to his mouth for a bite. He ignored, or did not notice, the heavy sigh that broke the quiet of the funhouse hideaway behind him.

Yes, it was the perfect thing. Those little Make-A-Wish Foundation kiddies. All that awful torment and pain and suffering they had to go through, why it near broke his heart. What kinder deed could their loving Uncle Joker do than to make their ultimate wish come true and snuff the candles out on their miserable existence. The thing was… how to get enough of them gathered in one spot… preferably here in Gotham… he could just imagine old Dork Knight's face… heh…

He tossed his burger aside, failing to notice the sigher scrabbling frantically to catch it before it hit the floor, and sat back down in his purple leather chair, bending over his desk. He swiped impatient fingertips over the hand-carved Joker doodles littering its oak surface, and pulled a sheaf of paper towards him.

Harley was stretched out on his desk, one hand propping up her chin, blinking at him longingly with round blue eyes.

He lifted his crayon and touched it to the paper, letting it trail where it may, spilling out a cacophony of thoughts in words and pictures.

"Harley, how about you make yourself useful?" he snapped at her and she started.

"How, Mistah J?" she sat up, eager to help and he flung his crayon at her.

"Shouldn't you know that?" He growled. The truth was, he wasn't sure either. He had a vague notion it might have to do with helping him plot, but that was ridiculous. As if he needed that little bubble-brain to assist him in devising one of _his_ brilliant schemes!

Clearly, Harley didn't know either, because she immediately crawled over the desk and lowered herself into his lap, straddling him and rubbing her breasts up against his chest.

He groaned, and she giggled, taking his frustration in all the wrong ways, as only she could.

She pushed aside the lapels of his brilliant purple smoking jacket, letting her fingertips tap out a teasing little beat over his chest, her lips playing over his jaw and cheek.

"Ya haven't checked your Harley's gears in a few days, Puddin'!" she purred, grinding her crotch against his. "Better make sure she can still run okay!" And her voice pitched upwards in that oh-so-aggravating lilt.

"I'm working." He snarled and she cooed. Criminey, how could she be so _clueless_?

"You work too hard." She mock-scolded him. "And ya know what they say about all work and no play!"

Well, that was true. Just look at old Batsy. He shuddered at the thought.

And, on the plus side, it would shut her up for a while so he could get on with his work.

With a growl he yanked her head towards his, muffling her delighted squeal with his mouth.

**ooOOoo**

The Joker was pacing impatiently, up and down in front of his desk, wandering in and out of the pool of light cast by the single overhead bulb.

Where was that Harley?

Dammit all.

Did the little minx do it on purpose? He wouldn't put it past her. She was _just _that sort of girl. A troublemaker.

Well, he'd show her when she got back. He wasn't going to put up with any sort of shenanigans, especially when they inconvenienced _him_. Just who was in charge here anyway?

His mind was furious, an absolute tornado of ideas spiralling out of control and he simply couldn't pin any one of them down for long enough to scribble them out. It was Harley's responsibility to stomp on them as he blurted them, hold the wriggling little germ up for him to survey with a cry of "Oooh, that sounds inspired, Mistah J!" so that he actually had a direction in which to focus his brilliance.

But worse still, they were being drowned out, stifled by another urge. A persistent, nagging, itching, relentless and absolutely infuriating urge.

One that, even more annoyingly, ALSO required Harley's presence to be quieted.

The door to the funhouse lair slammed shut and Harley bounced in, blonde pigtails bobbing, big beaming smile brightening up their surroundings as she held a triumphant hand aloft clutching the paper bags containing their take-away. "I'm back with sustenance for my Puddin'!" she began cheerfully before he slammed bodily into her, knocking her to the floor.

She let out a 'whuf' of surprise and then began to squeal ecstatically as he ripped off her little red shorts, his scarlet lips nipping playfully at her neck and jaw.

"You're a very bad girl to keep Daddy waiting, Pooh," he said in a dangerously teasing voice and she began to playfully plead for forgiveness:

"I'm sooo sorry, Mistah J, how can your Harley make it up to ya?"

And there was a sense of relief as all other thoughts temporarily receded in the face of this more immediate need and its inevitable fulfilment, his belt clinking as he unfastened it and Harley stretched out before him, trembling and aglow with fervent desire.

He'd waited three months to bust out of Arkham and start a new scheme, after all. A couple more hours wouldn't hurt.


End file.
